Ritual and Retreat
Lately after completing a run, I end up stretching at a neighborhood fence-- the solid lower half of which is the perfect height, with an open iron upper for grabbing onto for resistance and support (a pilates wall of sorts). I have also begun to incorporate a few sidewalk yoga poses. A ritual has resulted.
After at least half a dozen times of this, now, I am starting to feel a claim to this corner. It is not level, and has certain imperfections, which I have become attuned to. I also find that my observations of what surrounds my corner are deepening. For instance, as I finish my ritual with tree pose, I have become dependent on a certain bough of pine cones at the end of a branch of the towering tree that I now know will be there—a ‘true north’ for focus and reverence as I clasp my hands as high and straight as I can while elevating and balancing.
I have grown quite fond of an end of a wood pole from the coyote fence just across the street that I gaze at while in other poses or while walking for the post-stretch cool-down. The familiarity and appreciation of these elements and others only increase as the novelty wears away, and this brings me solace. I am able to dig deeper… into my thoughts, into myself, and into the subtleties and details that surround me.
Throughout my life I have sought out and found such places, in different iterations, each bringing a sense of respite, through familiarity, yes, but also as spots into which to disappear. Spots that only I know are ‘my’ spots. Spaces for nestling in for contemplation, daydreaming, or for undetected observations of others, or soaking in the surroundings… sounds, smells, the sway of the trees, kids playing, the speed of the movement of the clouds. They are places of escape, for moments or hours. A self-imposed time-out. Places ripe for ritual.
As a younger girl, I had a few places—sacred zones-- whether a pile of large square, firm “TV” pillows that I absconded with from our family room to listen to my music or reading on, or hidden away on blankets underneath a mulberry tree across the street for hours of looking at the world.
My favorite space of all, when a bit older, was a bench that sat on a small bricked-in secluded corner of our house, shielded from street and driveway view by a hedge, but open to the sky and perforated enough to watch comings and goings, and to hear most of what I might be missing out on inside, from the window above. Sequestered observation. And I had claimed it. No one else seemed to care about it, or seek it out for themselves. I feel this way about my new corner.
I think about public spaces, and how we often root out these spots for ourselves. We find comfort in their familiarity-- a certain chair at a certain table at our favorite café; a nook in a bookstore with the chair that we count on being open for us; a park bench. We don’t set out to find intimacy with them, or to need them. And we don’t often know that we have until they aren’t available, or perhaps until we one day realize that they have become a part of us.
Novelty breeds intrigue, and creativity. It beckons the bored. It chastises the creatures of comfort and the nostalgic. It is also a gamble. It may provide the highest high or the ultimate gratification. Or remorse, regret, or indifference.
I think about products, and spaces, and the seasonal new. The next great thing. The next thing that we can’t live without. That will bring us boundless incredulity at how we lived without it. Until we can live without it, or worse, turns out having bought it on a whim, can’t live with it.
What if we started thinking about the things that we surround ourselves with, or the spaces we selectively surround ourselves in, as places that invite some resonant familiarity-- familiarity and appreciation of the elements that increase only as the novelty has worn off, bringing solace, and reflection? What if we find that once the distractions of novelty, constant upheaval and change have worn off, we are able to dig deeper… into our thoughts, into ourselves, and into the subtleties and details that surround us?
—Steffany
